


White Out

by SonneillonV



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Khar Shian, Multi, Post-Korriban Incursion, Seduction to the Dark Side, Survival Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-10 03:04:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11682699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonneillonV/pseuds/SonneillonV
Summary: Taking padawans to Korriban is a bad idea all around.  Korriban has corrupted learned and powerful Jedi.  What the hell are you even doing?  Why are there padawans on Korriban?  See Also: Everyone Has A Very Bad Day.





	1. PRELUDE

**Author's Note:**

> Only the prelude is in present-tense. If you hate present tense, don't worry, it's over quickly.

One thing Cale has always liked about being a shaper of young minds is that it is seldom considered necessary for him to go to war. The young minds he is shaping are the ones who go, fresh out of university, bound for glory and great things. He is doing a greater service to the Empire by teaching and training these future leaders, by ensuring that the roots grow strong. Graduates of the Dromund Kaas Academy for Sorcery and ExoSciences are building a reputation throughout the galaxy - well educated, well rounded, with better command credentials, prepared for leadership. Cale works hard to make sure that reputation is upheld.

But when the Republic attacks Korriban, when the news is carried on a wave of shock and outrage that ripples through the caldera, the cradle of the Sith, their corner of space which was supposed to be safe from incursion… the war-mongers of the Empire are scattered across the galaxy, deployed on a hundred fronts. Even the Dark Council is away. As the Academy falls, the call goes out to anyone who can hear and answer.

Cale isn’t much of a loyalist, really, but he answers. Ever-practical, he figures if the Republic is allowed to get away with overrunning Korriban, Dromund Kaas won’t be far behind. Sometimes the best defense is a good offense. He contacts the Sphere of Imperial Defense and volunteers to retake the Homeworld.

The defenders are lucky. The mysterious Emperor’s Wrath was close enough to respond to the invasion. Cale bows to the masked Sith and accepts the place he is given, coming in behind, delving into ancient tombs like an exterminator to root out the Jedi from among the battle-scarred monuments to Sith heroes. He isn’t the spear-head type, anyway.

He is given command of a small company of Imperial soldiers. He can feel their rage and wonder… many of them have never been to Korriban. It’s a sacred world, and only the most elite of the home guard earn a station here. To see it smoking and crumbling strikes many of them with horror. Maybe their leaders, their dark priests, aren’t as strong as they surmised. Cale doesn’t judge them for this. He’s not the type who puts much stock in faith. Instead, he leads them into the twisting corridors and hidden courtyards of Korriban’s tombs and he shows them what a Sith Lord can do.

He commands the dead. Korriban is choking with them.

From The Force he pulls howling spirits, dark shades, twisted psychic echoes of dormant evil. It spreads like a rot, like an infection. Republic troopers find themselves turning cold and stiff, choking, clawing at their armor as their skin blackens and their eyes shrivel in the sockets. When he calls, tendrils of pale lightning spill from an empty sky and course through the Jedi who came, calling challenges, thinking one Sith in plain white robes would be easy prey. They go taut and twitching, muscles spasming under the assault, and while they are frozen in place Cale’s soldiers blast them to pieces. 

When they fall he pauses, stands over them, reaches out with white-gloved fingers.

The Force trembles. Clumsy at first, the dead rise to continue the assault against their own people. 

Terror spreads thick over the battlefield as this horror saps the strength from the invaders. They call out to their friends, their compatriots, trying to trigger recognition in them… but what animates them is not the spirit that was once theirs. It is the terrible will of Cale Walker, Lord Wraith, Speaker of the Dead, and he sees no reason to extend mercy.

Until.

In the tomb of Naga Sadow, a Jedi Commander has fortified several anti-aircraft guns. Cale’s comm crackles, the cultured voice on the other end alerting him that this fortification is making it very difficult for more assault troops to land close to the Academy. He accepts these orders - it’s a long day already, and it’s only going to get longer. He wasn’t planning on going home any time soon. Between pale and dark spirits straining at their mental leashes and corpses shambling along with the unnatural, jerky movements of dead things, he’s doubled the size of his command. His own troops aren’t immune to the fear that grows around him. He takes a moment to redirect their focus.

“I’ve received word,” he says, and his sergeant holds up a hand, signalling the others to stop and listen. “Reinforcements have arrived in orbit. But they’re taking heavy fire from anti-aircraft installations. We’ve been ordered to assault a key Republic fortification and take down their anti-aircraft guns so our troops can land. This is where the tide turns,” he says, raking his gaze across his troops. Most of their faces are hidden behind helmets and HUD lenses, but they can see his blood-red eyes just fine. He was never into masks. “This is where we scrape the Republic off our world like shit from a boot. I know some of you are a bit distracted by the reinforcements I’ve picked up for us. Don’t waste your time worrying about enemies who are already dead when there are living enemies just waiting to join them. They’ve insulted us, coming here.” He hears a few mutterings of agreement. “We’ll repay that insult a thousandfold. Focus. The installation is guarded by Jedi Commander Wilso. You know the drill. Take out the support and then lay down cover fire. I’ll handle the Jedi.”

The sergeant calls orders, and the company moves on. Cale moves at the front, lightsaber in his hand.

He senses the lookouts before he sees them and reaches out with The Force, leashing them around their necks and yanking them from their spots. They scream as they tumble and crunch on impact. Korriban’s cold, red stone is notoriously unforgiving. At the doorway to the tomb a barricade has been erected, and the defenders crouch behind it, laying down blaster fire. Cale’s bone-white lightsaber crackles, sending the blue and orange plasma bolts back to the barricade. He roots himself, finds that trembling barrier that separates life from antilife, and pulls.

A barricade is no impediment to shades. They slide through, claws grasping and hungry and cold, and their lust for the heat of life sends the Republic soldiers to the ground twitching and gasping. Cale’s forces charge in behind, clambering over the barricade and claiming it as a fall-back point. They aren’t TOO distracted when Cale goes incorporeal himself, just for an instant, and slides through the barricade like a ghost - it’s more dignified than climbing.

They’ve almost finished discussing their plan to sweep the tomb corridors when a soft patter of running feet echoes down the stone hallway and a green lightsaber blazes to life.

Imperial discipline is a wonderful thing. Orders bounce between the sergeant and senior infantry and everyone falls into place, kneeling in a firing line that leaves plenty of room for Cale to work. This Jedi doesn’t advance, though - she stands at the end of the hall, slender as a young willow, the tip of her lightsaber wavering just a little when Cale turns to face her. He can feel her fear, and the effort she spends to subdue it.

And he realizes, she’s just a padawan.

The Jedi Order brought a padawan to Korriban. To the ancient homeworld of The Sith, to a Dark Side Nexus that had swallowed even Jedi Masters, to the Stygian Caldera, stronghold of the Empire. Arguably the most dangerous place in the entire galaxy for a padawan to be, and they brought her here.

Cale is many things - a terrible manifestation of the Dark Side, a psychic black hole, a freak of nature, an unholy half-dead (who may or may not have seen the Underverse). He’s also, at his core, a teacher. That’s why he does what he does, because the combination of teenage hormones and Dark Side power is not something you sign up for unless you really love the job and have, at the very least, a higher than average tolerance for children.

“Hold your fire.”

That’s the wonderful thing about Imperials - they seldom question orders. The blasters ratchet as they tilt toward the floor, and Cale takes slow steps toward the coltish young woman.

“Stay where you are, Sith!” Her voice is young too, trembling despite the conviction she’s trying to summon.

Just in case it’s a trick, Cale flicks his fingers and the shadows under his control meld into the stone. They flit through the tomb, searching for others. He gives them leave to drain life where they find it. Reinforcements are coming to the padawan’s position, but they won’t get there in time.

“No need for that,” he says, deactivating his own lightsaber. Hers hums, casting the tomb’s statuary into eerie green shadows. “I’m Headmaster Walker. I’m a teacher from Kaas City. And unless my judgement is off, you’re a padawan. This place is a bit beyond your capacities. What possessed your master to bring you here?”

“You know NOTHING of my capacities, Sith,” she snaps. She is afraid, but resigned. She doesn’t want to die here, but so much anxiety is coursing through her veins she’s on the verge of making a very unwise decision. Cale’s seen this before, too many times to count. Desperate young people get tunnel vision, and decide the only way out is through. He takes a placating stance.

“I’m more interested in your name. Don’t you introduce yourselves in the Republic anymore?”

“I will give you nothing. Not an INCH of ground.” Her palms are sweating on the hilt of her saber despite the chill in the air.

Cale smiles. “As you like.”

His grip takes her by surprise. An icy chill wraps around her throat and yanks her forward, toes dragging across the gravel-strewn floor. Her hands snap out to the sides, lightsaber pointing to the wall. She kicks, struggles tries to strain against his grip, but her power is still immature.

In the flickering green light of her saber, for the briefest instant, she sees his true face.

Her scream of horror echoes through the tomb, ending only when her unconscious body slumps to the floor.

“We don’t have orders to take captives.” The sergeant is dubious about arguing with him, but Cale is the patient sort.

“Nonetheless, search her and restrain her. And comm the other teams. If there are padawans among the Jedi here, I want them alive.”

The sergeant follows her orders, because that’s what Imperials do. Moments later, Cale gets a priority comm.

“Lord Wraith. You gave the order to take prisoners?”

“Dictates of pragmatism, my lord,” he replied, striding deeper into the tombs where his Force Wraiths have already set upon the Republic guards. “I’ll take responsibility for them. If at all possible, we should recoup our losses… and make the Order regret they had the temerity to set foot here.”

A moment of silence stretches before the comm buzzes again. “Agreed.”

The Republic soldiers are easily dealt with. His troops follow him in and hold each junction in the labyrinthine tomb. Cale didn’t attend Korriban, but he’s studied these tombs, and he knows his way around better than the Republic invaders will. A pair of consulars block his path, and fall to the corpses of their friends, then rise to join his ranks.

He finds Master Wilso in the uppermost chambers, guarding the anti-aircraft guns the Republic has assembled on the tomb rooftop. He has another padawan by his side, a nautolan boy whose lanky frame has yet to take on the bulk of adulthood.

“Sith,” the maned Cathar growls, lightsaber humming. “What have you done with Anira?”

Cale eyes his opponent, and the ranks of Republic commandos who’ve set up cover across the room, aiming blasters and assault canons at him. He pulls his dead slaves into position, crowding them up behind him. The scent of blood and death is as familiar to him as the taste of his own tongue. 

“What have I done?” He folds his arms and stares the Jedi down while the nautolan boy shifts his weight, wondering why the adults are talking instead of fighting. “A precocious question, Jedi. I’m not the one who brought children of the light to Korriban. This is the last place in the known galaxy they should be. What is that one, fourteen? Fifteen?” He gestures at the boy, who grips his lightsaber tighter.

Wilso is not impressed. “Any child of the light is a thousand times wiser than the greatest master of darkness. Your time ends here, Sith. You can die in the tombs of your ancestors. I hope that’s some comfort to you.”

Cale blinks. “... This is the tomb of Naga Sadow, who was of Pureblood descent,” he says, unable to keep the scathing reproach from his tone. “He’s no ancestor of mine. And a child of the light is a CHILD, the same as the children of the darkness. You came here and you killed our children.” He thumbs his lightsaber and it ignites as he stalks closer, steps slow and measured. “You came here and desecrated the tombs of our dead. You came here, Jedi, to work genocide, as your kind have done to my kind so many times in the past. Your noble, free Republic is built on the bodies of dissenters. But I brought a few bodies of my own.”

Behind him, blue and green lightsabers blaze to life. Wilso’s yellow eyes narrow. The nautolan boy’s ink-black eyes go wide with horror. 

“I wouldn’t have expected an ideologue like you to show mercy to our children.” Cold winds stir the inner chamber, and the soldiers’ breath frosts as the temperature drops. “But you show callous disregard for your own, bringing them here. You and I are both monsters, Jedi Master. But your monstrosity is masked by righteousness. Mine…” His low chuckle echoes from the stone walls as pale faces shuffle into view, their eyes dead and their jaws slack, limbs hanging loose in the sockets. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Don’t hesitate, No’runn.” Wilso brings his blue saber to bear. “What is dead cannot feel pain.”

Cale smiles. “Are they dead?” he asks, quiet, smooth. “Or are they under my control? Perhaps you can get them back… if you don’t tear them apart.”

Wilso feels his padawan wavering. “A Jedi has no room for doubt!” he snarls, and Cale exhales, looses the hounds, lets the corpses fly at Wilso and the angry ghosts swarm his soldiers. Blaster bolts chew into the ceiling, filling the room with gravel and dust. True to his words, Wilso fights the corpses of his friends without mercy, without hesitation. But the dead feel no pain, and those animated by the Dark Side don’t require beating hearts to keep on moving.

“Perhaps a Jedi has no room for doubt, but you’re barely a Jedi, aren’t you?”

The boy jumps, swinging his lightsaber around. It’s the same pretty, pale blue as his skin, but he’s flecked with a rather lovely pattern of deep violet spots.

“I think you have doubts,” Cale murmurs. In the dust and the darkness, his eyes gleam crimson. Blaster bolts fly around them, but in a bubble of calm created by writhing tendrils of ectoplasm, there is only No’runn and himself. “I think you have questions. I think you’ve always wondered what the Order is hiding from you. Maybe that’s why your master brought you to this world… to see if a taste of the Dark Side would bring you down, or because he knew you were impure, and he thought we’d kill you.”

Master Wilso screams like a panther as one of the corpses sinks its teeth into his hand. The boy startles, distracted, half-turning but unwilling to show Cale his back.

“It’s so easy for him to kill his friends and allies. How hard would it have been for him to kill you? But I won’t.” Cale’s voice is a song, echoing, throbbing through the boy’s head like the vibrations of a tuning fork. “Lay down your saber, and I won’t. You and Anira can live.”

“M… master….”

“He knew what type of bear he was baiting, coming here. You’re just a child, No’runn. You shouldn’t have been part of this. Lay down your saber, let me get you out of here. It doesn’t have to end this way.”

His eyes gleam in the darkness. The blaster fire dies down, shouted Imperial orders ringing as Cale’s troops spill through the doorway and claim the chamber. They put down the last of the Republic resistance. Master Wilso fights on a carpet of corpses, holding off hungry wraiths with a pulsing Force Shield that makes eardrums pop and No’runn’s tendrils curl.

“You’re Sith. You’re a liar.”

Cale’s eyebrows lift. “So is he. The difference is, I’m not a liar who’s going to get you killed. I don’t even know you, and I care about you more than he does. Just stand down. I have to fight your master because he came to my home to destroy me. He’s not going to leave me a choice. I don’t have to fight you. Don’t you think Wilso knew what he was getting into?”

“I…” The boy’s tendrils curl tighter, and he shows his teeth. “You’ll kill us all.”

“That’s what YOU came here to do, isn’t it? Am I not allowed to defend my home? My people?” A blaster bolt takes Master Wilso in the calf as the Imperials lay down cover fire. As he goes to one knee, a corpse cut in half at the waist reaches out torn hands and grips his clothing, trying to pull him down. “The students here were your age or younger. The Jedi came here to kill children, and they say it’s good and right because those children were Sith. But they had no more choice in their upbringing than you did.” Cale gestures, and lightning pours from his palm, sending the Jedi twitching to the floor. He is swarmed. “They’re no different from you, No’runn. This is their home, this is their life. He brought you here, to this evil place, because he does not care what happens to you. Because he’s not attached, because you don’t matter. He let Anira come to face me alone, because she doesn’t matter. But I saved her life, and I will save yours.”

His sergeant, her flame-colored hair escaping from under her helmet, boldly darts in and slams a vibroblade through the Jedi’s spinal column. No’runn screams as he feels the death in The Force, and his shock allows Cale to move in and almost gently twist the lightsaber out of his hand. 

“Master…” the boy pants, but he doesn’t fight as Cale wraps his hand around the back of his neck and squeezes. “Master, NO.”

“Sleep.” The whispered command seeps into the boy’s mind, and he drops slowly, crumpling to the ground.

The tomb shakes as the anti-aircraft guns fire above them. Cale motions to a pair of soldiers to secure the male padawan, then heads for the stairs. The commandos surrounding the turret are no challenge - their bodies are like tissue paper, parting gracelessly for his lightsaber, and his touch leaves frostbitten rot across their flesh. He reprograms the gun to fire on the other two turrets within range, sending them crashing through collapsed tombs, a regrettable but necessary loss. Besides - they’ve dug Korriban out of its own ashes before. They can do it again. Engines scream in atmo as the troop carriers drop through open sky, disgorging black-clad soldiers into Korriban’s red valleys. Dust flies under their boots and Cale turns his comm to the main channel so he can hear the chatter.

Moments later he and his living soldiers are hurrying through the tunnels to get back to the Academy. The Wrath, it is being said, is facing down the commander of the Invasion in the chambers of the Dark Council themselves. The Academy is all but won, the Republic is routed, and Imperial reinforcements are overwhelming the hold-outs. Nothing left but the clean-up. Prisoners are being gathered near the south shuttle pad, and Cale goes there, two Imperial commandos hauling his prisoners while his sergeant follows his orders to link up with the Lieutenant coordinating sweeps of the valley. There he finds an impromptu triage station - surviving acolytes, many wounded, waiting to be evacuated. Inside a forcefield holding pen are Republic soldiers, stripped of armor, trying to recover on the unforgiving ground.

Individual forcefield cells stand haphazardly along the cliff wall. These contain captured padawans. Even a couple of Jedi knights survived, broken and bloody, but still breathing in their small prisons. Three-legged war droids stand guard over them, but all have a dazed look that suggests they’ve been drugged to keep them from reaching for The Force.

Cale’s soldiers move to add his captives to the lot. A black-armored figure emerges from the throng, blank mask staring Cale down.

“Lord Wraith. Your operations in the tombs were a success.”

“An unqualified success, my lord. Save for a little destruction, which is always regrettable. But tombs can be rebuilt.” Cale shrugs. The tombs have been carpet-bombed, plagued, plundered, and otherwise abused throughout the centuries. He’s not worried about the tombs.

“Indeed.” The Darth turns on his heel, black cape swirling and swallowing light. “Many acolytes were lost to the invasion. This handful of padawans poses a risk to those who remain. You said you would take responsibility.”

“And I will.” Cale watches as the forcefield is enacted around Anira. Still unconscious, she lies curled half-fetal on the cell floor. “The shaping of young minds is my profession. And honestly, the way the Jedi are raising them these days, half the job’s done for me.”

“Where will you take them? They cannot remain in the capitol. Not while their loyalties are uncertain.”

Cale’s smile is slow, and confident. “Not to worry, my lord. I know just the place. Somewhere they can truly learn to appreciate the history they came here to destroy.”

This earns a rough snort, and Cale is left alone with his crop of prisoners, looking over the raw clay he has been provided. Intake manifolds whine as shuttles land and take off, carrying the wounded and then prisoners. When the approach is clear, he signals Kite to hover at the cliff’s edge.

“And send word to Khar Delba,” he adds into the comm as the droids obediently turn on the cell grav-lifts. “Let them know I need to borrow their moon.”


	2. Chapter 2

Years later, No'runn Vas would swear that he felt the temperature drop in the Sandstorm's cargo hold as soon as they arrived in orbit. The cold was that pervasive, that profound, a soul-freezing chill that thwarted all attempts to stave it off with cold-weather gear or feeble electric heaters. 

The drugs prevented him from reaching out for The Force - he could feel it, but it slipped between his fingers like the last sliver of a bar of soap. For a few hours, while they were still in hyperspace, the terrible pressure of the Dark Side had been lifted. They were still in the Caldera, so there was still, for lack of a better term, an 'aftertaste' to The Force that tainted Runn's perceptions, but the space between the stars didn't have the potent, focused nexus of Dark Side energy that Korriban had been.

Khar Shian did. If anything, Khar Shian was a sharper, more focused evil - its aura almost contained a personality, a diffuse awareness that seemed to notice him as soon as he was within its reach. He would later learn this was a psychic echo, a tremor in The Force left by powerful Sith Lords who had inhabited Khar Shian in decades or centuries past. The moon wasn't really aware, but it gave the impression of being both aware and malevolent, which inspired a certain degree of paranoia.

He and his fellow padawans had been locked in the Sandstorm's cargo hold. They were drugged, but not restrained. Fex had already made attempts to pry away several panels, but the Sandstorm appeared to be a smuggler's ship, and the panels that weren't just decoys refused to come off at all. No tools had been left to them. There was nothing in the hold they could use - some water, some rations, blankets, painkillers for those who were injured. They hadn't been treated cruelly, but thorough precautions had been taken against the potential of their escape.

The ship rattled as they came out of hyperspace. Its engines had a low, powerful whining thrum that implied any number of aftermarket modifications. It rattled even more when they began their descent, wind and sleet pelting the hull. Despite the artificial gravity, Runn could feel the torque as the ship spiraled through the atmosphere, riding rather than battling the currents. He couldn't see the world beneath them but he could sense it, like a yawning black abyss opening up beneath his feet. He fought for composure, hearing at least one of his companions begin to hyperventilate. His legs strained, pressing reflexively against the floor like the parent of a new driver searching for a passenger-side brake.

The shaking abated when they dropped below the worst of the atmospheric turbulence. Anira huddled next to him taking shaky breaths, her leaf-strewn hair disheveled. "This is a bad place," she whispered.

"Did you think the Sith would send us anyplace good?" Fex snapped. Runn forgave his tone under the circumstances.

"What do you think they did with the other Jedi Prisoners?" This was Rakal, who'd been quiet and grimly composed for the length of the trip despite the glassy look in her deep blue eyes.

"I heard Wraith say something about an auction," Anira whispered. "They may have been sold into slavery."

"I pity the slave-owner who thinks he can break a Jedi," Runn snorted, forcing bravado.

"A Sith might be able to," Rakal answered soberly, and for a long moment, they all contemplated that horror.

"What I don't understand is what they're doing with us," Fex said. "We're all aliens, except Niceus. Why weren't we sold off?"

"We don't know where we're going," Rakal pointed out. "Maybe that's a slave market down there."

"No." Anira's voice was quiet, but full of conviction. "This is something else. Something worse."

Runn agreed, but he didn't think it would help anything to say it out loud. Everyone already looked shell-shocked enough, swaying slightly where they sat as the ship's extenders folded in and it set down with a rumbling crunch.

Metallic footsteps on the stairs warned them of their captain's approach. He was human, sandy blond with dark eyes that contained a predator's gleam. He'd introduced himself as Kite, and told them in a calm, no-nonsense drawl that he didn't intend to give them any trouble as long as they returned the favor. He hadn't done anything to them since their capture at the hands of Lord Wraith, but several padawans still shied back from the door when it swung open and he stepped inside, dressed in a heavy, fur-lined cold-weather coat over his battered armor. He paused to make sure nobody was going to rush the door, then dragged in a grav-lift with a pair of long crates stacked on the pallet. The door swung shut automatically behind him.

"I've got cold weather gear here for everyone," he said. "Believe me, you don't want to be stubborn about this. Wind out there'll freeze your skin right off with half a second's exposure."

"This is your master's idea of sparing our lives?" Fex demanded. "Dropping us on Hoth?"

"It's not Hoth," Niceus murmured. He'd been sitting next to a stack of net-secured crates, idly fussing with their locking mechanism without any success. His eyes remained fixed on the floor, half-concealed by autumn-red hair. "Flight to Hoth would have taken almost twelve days at hyperspeed 4, give or take a few hours."

Fex sighed. "I wasn't being literal--"

"Okay, I'm hearin' a lot of chatter," Kite said. "What I want to be hearin' is movement. Get up, come get your gear. I'm not looking to hang about."

There was a reluctant pause, but then Rakal pushed herself to her feet and approached the crate. Kite punched in the lock code and kicked the lid off, revealing piles of similarly fur-lined environmental gear. He found a size that would fit Rakal's sturdy frame and passed her a jumpsuit, an overcoat, gloves, boots, socks, and a visored helmet designed to cover her entirely and zip onto the shoulders of the jumpsuit. The gear was obviously secondhand but it looked sturdy enough, and when Rakal triggered the controls, the power pack on the back of the coat hummed to life.

They shuffled over one by one like kicked akk puppies.

Runn accepted a length of insulated synthsilk to wrap his head tendrils so they would fit under the helmet. "Where are we?" he asked Kite, who perpetually wore an expression of lazy diffidence that was extremely difficult to read.

"A little moon called Khar Shian," he answered. "You wouldn't have heard of it."

"Khar Shian is a tidally locked moon of the planet Khar Delba," Niceus murmured, his eyes still on the floor, lips barely moving to form the words. "In the year 1347 BTC, the the Sith warlord Naga Sadow used Khar Delba as a staging point for an invasion of the Galactic Republic, which began the first Great Hyperspace War. This is the fortress of Naga Sadow."

Kite's mouth quirked up at the corner. "I stand corrected. Kid's right. You all have the dubious honor of being guests in the home of one of the greatest Sith Lords in history. Of course, Naga Sadow is dead now, and I have it on good authority that his ghost isn't haunting this fortress, so at least you don't have to worry about that. Though you might encounter the odd echo or mnemonic tremor."

"Why are we here?" Rakal demanded, winding up her tumbling dark curls so she could fit them under the helmet. The hood attached to the jumpsuit was barely loose enough to fit over her rounded horn nubs. "This seems like a lot of effort to go to to freeze us to death."

"The Headmaster's a Sith of his word," Kite said. "You're not here to die, though it ain't exactly out of the realm of possibility."

"Then what are we here to do?" Runn's voice quavered, and he gritted his teeth, trying to summon some kind of courage against the persistent haze that hung over his thoughts.

Kite chuckled. "Man's a teacher. I expect you're here to learn." When the top crate was empty and they were all busy zipping and fastening and fiddling with power switches, he kicked the top crate off the stack and opened the second one, revealing a line of bulging hiking packs. "Everybody take one. I'm not your porter."

"We're not your porters either," Fex replied, but Kite just smiled.

"All right, leave the stuff here. See what happens."

Runn threw Fex a quelling glance and moved in to take a pack, as did Rakal and Anira. Niceus was still squatting near the crates, so Runn took a pack to him. "Come on, get up. We're not staying here."

"What would happen if we did?" Niceus asked, throwing a sullen glance at Kite, whose blaster pistols hung easy on his hips, burnished from years of use.

Runn followed his gaze. "We're still drugged."

"We're still Jedi."

He considered that a moment, then shrugged. "If you want to try it, I'll back you."

At first, he thought Niceus might actually do it. There was a glint in his eyes that promised pain. But then he let the tension out, shoulders sagging, and accepted his backpack. Runn helped him tighten it and adjusted the straps.'

"I don't like this suit," Niceus murmured. He was very picky about textures in everything from fabrics to food.

"You'll like freezing to death less," Runn said gently. "Just think about how when we get where we're going, you can take it off."

"The straps are squeezing my stomach," he complained, and Runn lifted the pack's weight to give him room to adjust them. He yanked and struggled for a moment, then gave up with a whine when the straps refused to cross his body anywhere other than mid-torso.

"Do you have any packs that have a higher strap?" Runn asked Kite. "He can't breathe in that one."

Kite gestured at the crate. "What you see is what I have. I'll give you a few minutes to switch it out if there's a better one, but then we're moving."

Rakal helped Runn dig through the available packs. He found one that was a different design with a slightly higher chest strap and helped Niceus put it on. It wasn't much better, judging by the way he chewed on his full lower lip, but there wasn't a whole lot of room for improvement.

They divvied the packs up between them. Kite pulled the grav sled into the cargo bay and slid it under the pallet of crates with the net over it. Pulling his own environmental helmet down over his face, he keyed the code to open the cargo bay doors.

Even with his gear on, the cold hit Runn like a fist. His visor iced over immediately, then cleared as the suit compensated. Something tugged at his waist - Kite was hooking them all together with a climber's line, carabiners rattling along its length attached to their belts. Once he had them all hooked up, Niceus shying away from the hook and forcing Kite to grab him and hold him still while he cringed, he motioned that they should activate the built-in comms.

"My advice is to keep your hands on the line," he said. "You won't be able to see for shit, so don't try. Anybody unhooks themselves, congratulations, you're on your own. Where we’re going is the only shelter on this rock."

Runn unhooked himself and circled around behind Niceus where he could keep an eye on him. Normally, Niceus could weather things he didn't like if he knew they were necessary, but they were all very stressed. Runn didn't want to lose him to the blinding whiteness outside if he panicked and decided he preferred the icy wasteland to having a hook attached to his belt.

Kite went first, guiding the grav sled ahead of him and trailing the cord behind him. Rakal went first, with Anira behind. Fex brought up the rear, and Runn could almost feel his anger fluttering against his back. Under any other circumstances, he would have described it as heat.

/This is not the place for that,/ he thought as they trudged out into the crunchy, sharply crystallized snow, /This is the last place we should be letting our emotions off the leash./

The ship was immediately lost in the blowing whiteness. Runn could barely see the shadow of Niceus moving only an arm's length ahead of him. Three steps, that was all it would take to lose all sense of direction and wander forever in the blizzard. He clung to the cord, and the fact that his gloves were too thick to really feel its weight made him paranoid. His heart hammered, and despite the cold biting to the bone he was sweating inside his jumpsuit.

/There is no emotion; there is peace,/ he told himself, trying to take steady, rhythmic steps and chant in time, to keep himself focused on walking. /There is no emotion; there is peace. There is no emotion; there is peace. There is no fear. I will not fear. I'm at peace./

He lost all sense of time. He began counting breaths. His hands went numb, and he flailed a little, groping for the line, unable to tell he was holding it, unwilling to trust his eyes. The air in his suit tasted like stale sweat and he wondered if the filters had iced over, if he was breathing his own carbon dioxide, if soon he would keel over and be lost....

Behind him, Fex stumbled and crashed into his hip on the way down. Runn was ankle-deep in ice crust, so he didn't fall, but he did yank the line several times as he was dragged on. Both of them were dragged several more steps, and then he remembered his comm and clumsily pawed at the control on his mask. 

"Fex is down, stop. He's down. Stop!"

"Is he still hooked?" Kite asked.

Runn could feel his struggles pulling at him. "Yes, he's still hooked, he just fell."

Everyone had stopped by that point. Runn carefully bent down and helped Fex find his feet, then made sure his carabiner was still attached. Fex hadn't turned his mic on, but Runn could imagine what he was probably muttering as he straightened the pack that had made it impossible for him to get up on his own.

“Not too much longer, kids,” Kite said through the comms. “Hang in there.” They started moving again, and despite the reassurance that they were close, once again Runn felt time slip away under the pressure of the storm.

A small eternity later, he noticed a shadow cast on the swirling white. Huge and dark, it had a vague pyramid shape that resolved into classic, old Sith architecture as they came closer and it blocked more of the wind - stepped, all triangles, with sheer and foreboding angles pointing toward the sky. It terrified Runn more than the storm, and all the calm he’d fought so hard to regain was shattered as they stepped into the lee of the fortress.

The terrain went unnaturally flat, broken by small, irregularly shapen lumps. When they passed close to one, Runn could just barely make out the spindly legs of an old Imperial Walker encased in ice, its cabin collapsed from the weight of decades of snow.

A darker shadow yawned against the sheer edifice. Runn tripped over the first shallow step. The snow concealed a stairway so wide three armored transports could have climbed it side by side, and all of them except Kite floundered as they were reduced to crawling up the slope. As they got higher, the stairway recessed into the fortress wall, blocking more and more of the wind and snow and making the going easier until they finally found themselves in a mercifully well-protected foyer. Snow still covered the floor, drifting up against the walls, but they were able to see each other and come closer together, to huddle around Kite and his grav-sled.

“You know,” Fex said through the comm, “this kind of reminds me Ilum.”

The atmospheric conditions on Ilum were starkly different, but that wasn’t what Fex meant. A huge set of doors carved with ancient, menacing glyphs loomed in front of them, just barely illuminated by a light-stick Kite had cracked and left on top of the crates.

“Okay,” Kite said through the comm. “I’ve got the key to this place, but I’m told only a Force User can use it to open the doors. Who wants to give it a try?” He held up a strange object. It was made of different types of metal with gleaming gems deeply inlaid. The metal strips curled and formed strange shapes, but there was no handle, and there were no teeth that Runn could see. He placed it into a socket where the massive doors joined and stepped away. “Come on, it won’t bite. There’s shelter inside. The place runs on geothermal - it still has power. Power means light, a little bit of heat, water filters….”

“There’s a catch, right?” Fex said dryly. “There’s gotta be a catch.”

“Well, sure,” Kite said easily. “It’s a Sith relic. It responds to channeling the Dark Side. But I guess you could just stay here and freeze your ass off for the sake of ideological purity.”

Runn’s stomach twisted. He stared at the strange object, gleaming against the iced-over doors. His pack weighed him down like a bantha sitting on his shoulders, and the others were similarly stooped. They were all exhausted, still coming off the drugs, shivering despite their environmental suits. Runn’s teeth rattled against each other. The longer he stood still, the more he was convinced he could feel his blood freezing under his skin.

Kite waited a moment. Then he passed a handheld scanner to Rakal, who was standing closest, and shouldered past them. Runn only realized he’d unhooked himself when he passed by without any tension on the cord. None of them had the wits to stop him, frozen where they stood, sluggish and slack-jawed as he jogged down the stairs… and disappeared into the blizzard.

The moments stretched. None of them wanted to be the first, but Runn crumbled, sacrificing his pride as a mad, stampeding panic began to pound in his gut. “Kite?”

The comms were silent. His breathing was the loudest sound in the world.

“Kite? Are you there? Are you coming back?” He knew his voice had gone squeaky at the end. He knew he sounded unhinged. Fear was like insects inside his skull, crawling, squirming behind his eyes, making his blood thunder in his ears like war drums. He didn’t even realize he’d moved until Rakal and Fex tackled him, spilling him into the snow while he thrashed and screamed and tried to claw his way out from under them so he could run after the only adult supervision they’d had.

“He’s gone!” Fex was shouting, and under the weight of his pack and two of his friends Runn was forced to give up and subside into hyperventilating terror. “You’ll never find him, idiot. You go out there, you die.”

“Fex,” Rakal chided, but even her voice wavered, and Fex’s heavy breathing spilled through the comm.

“We’re ALL going to die!” he trilled, his already high voice going even higher and more reedy. “We’ll never find the ship again in this! He’ll be gone before we’d even have a chance! We can’t use The Force, and if we guess wrong by even a few feet we’ll be frozen to death before he leaves orbit. He LEFT US, Rakal. He left us!”

Silence stretched as they all digested that terrible truth. The comm was filled with the sound of panting, shuddering breaths. Runn calmed hearing it, feeling his friends close. Their only way off this planet had abandoned them, but he wasn’t alone. And if he was doing to die, he wouldn’t die alone.

“Let me up,” he wheezed. “It’s okay. Let me up.”

Fex rolled off him, and Rakal thrashed a little in the snow as she untangled herself from him and his pack. Runn got to his knees, then shrugged the pack off, tossing it deeper into the shelter of the entrance so he could stand. Without it, he felt nearly weightless, and he moved closer to examine the dim gleam of the key.

He couldn’t. Could he? He didn’t even know how… the Dark Side was close, all around them, pressing down like a terrible storm front, but to let it inside him… but he couldn’t let his friends stand here and freeze to death.

“What do you think?” Fex’s Rhodian teeth weren’t built to chatter, but Runn could tell from the wavering of his voice that he was feeling the cold.

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “I’ve never tried. I’ve never… dared to.”

None of them had, and they stood together for a long moment facing the reality of that.

Niceus was the one who moved. He stepped past the others and put his hand over the key. The bulky suit blocked most of his body language, but Runn could see his head dip. And then he FELT it… a slow uncurling of rage and distress. They were stunted emotions, faltering, still clumsy and untried. But they were genuine. Niceus’s comm wasn’t on, but Runn thought he felt a scream, something dragged up from the depths of his belly, something that had been stuffed down and silenced for a long time.

The key glowed red. The sound of a tremendous crack, like ice plates grinding together, penetrated even their environmental suits.

And the great, black doors swung open.


	3. Chapter 3

Nothing awaited them beyond the rune-scribed doors but a vast and shadowed emptiness. Rakal was the first to venture in, picking up the light stick Kite had left behind and shedding its verdigris glow across reflective flooring. Her footsteps echoed hollow, and soon the shadows swallowed her until all her waiting companions could see from the door was the dim, bobbing green light. The comm was filled with the sound of shaky breathing.

“It’s okay,” Rakal said eventually. “There’s nothing here. Bring the stuff in.”

Runn grabbed the grav-lift and steered the crates through the doors, and the others piled in behind him, spreading out to explore as far as the dim gray light cast through the doorway would let them. The ceiling was vaulted, vanishing into darkness, supported by curved durasteel buttresses. The floor tiles were burnished enough to throw reflections of light at crazy angles, marked with subtle shapes. Fex hung back and retrieved the key, pushing the doors shut. They were well-balanced – he was able to close them by himself, and when he pushed one door, its mate mirrored its movement until the two came together with a resounding thunk. The howl of the wind subsided instantly.

“See if you can find a control node,” Rakal said through the comm, and they spread out, Runn leaving the grav-lift near the doors. Their gloved hands whispered along stone façade mounted on the walls. Runn crossed toward where he estimated the middle of the room might be, groping his way along in the dark. He moved slowly, trying to reach out with The Force and sense his way, but his perception was still drug-muddled.

“When I get my hands on that human,” Fex muttered, perhaps unaware that his mic was on, “I’m going to stuff spice down his throat until he’s hearing colors and tasting music.”

“You’re talking about synesthesia,” Niceus provided softly. “That doesn’t happen with spice.”

“I don’t CARE, Nic,” Fex snapped. “That’s the whole point.”

Niceus hesitated, chastened by his tone, then carefully added, “feeding someone that much spice would kill them….”

“I KNOW WHAT I SAID.”

“Fex!” Rakal’s voice cut through the chatter like a splash of cold water. “First of all, don’t let this place get to you. It’s a Dark Side Nexus of incredible power. You have to acknowledge that and separate yourself from the feelings you’re having. But if you can’t do that, don’t take it out on Nic. He’s not the one who stranded you here. In fact, he’s the reason you’re out of the wind and snow right now. Aim that mouth of yours at the right people, THEN fire. All right?”

There was a long silence underscored with a soft, rhythmic thumping, during which Runn continued to shuffle forward, arms out and head tilted back. How vast WAS this room? He could barely see the light stick’s glow behind him, broken up by the shadows of the pillars supporting the roof.

“Fine,” Fex muttered at last. “Sorry, Nic.”

The thumping stopped. A moment later, Runn heard Anira murmur something, then cut off abruptly as she switched her channel. That meant Niceus had likely retreated into one of his self-soothing methods and Anira was trying to help. Runn wanted to go over and lend a hand, but he was still trying to find the wall.

Then the glow of the light stick cut off almost entirely. Runn gasped and stumbled, flailing his arms for a moment before he managed to spread his feet wide and find his balance. He turned, scanning the room behind him, and found a straight vertical line blocking most of the light. Moving toward the line, he found a corner of stone, and across from it, he could just barely make out a hint of reflection – another wall. He’d wandered into a corridor attached to the entryway.

Runn huffed and groped his way to the wall to continue searching for a control node. “Do we have more light sticks?” he griped.  
  
“If we do, there’s no telling when we may need them,” Rakal advised. “We should conserve our supplies as much as we can. Kite might not come back for a long time, or at all.”

It took a moment for Runn to realize that the low, rattling sound that filled the mic was Fex growling.

“I found something!” Anira announced.

“Stellar,” Fex snarked. “And where are you, again?”

“Just stay where you are, I think I can make this work,” she said. “Its older tech, but it’s not ancient. Everybody, stand still.”

“We’re still, Ani,” Rakal said. “Do your thing.”

A moment later, artificial braziers mounted on the buttresses began to glow. The glow increased, spilling light over the floor and casting shadows across the ceiling. When they reached the brightest it seemed they would go the room was still dim, but it was plenty of light to see by. Runn moved away from the hallway he’d discovered, where the shadows still gathered too thick to see through, and met the others across the entryway from the doors where Anira had found the console.

“I think those are the only lights in this room. I don’t see any others,” she said. “These might be the halls….” She tapped the keys and soft red lighting came on in the three hallways that entered the room at the midpoint of each wall.

“Good find, Anira,” Rakal said, even as Anira moved aside for Fex to fiddle with the controls. “Fex, turn on as many lights as you can find. If the place has geothermal energy reserves, there’s no reason not to. If not, we’ll find out soon enough.”

Fex grunted and began navigating the primitive software, testing commands. Rakal took a deep breath and unzipped her helmet.

“OH,” she breathed, exhaling in a visible puff. “It’s COLD. But breathable… if the air doesn’t freeze in my lungs. Fex, can you find heat?”

“I’m in the power subroutines,” he said. “Looks like the human told the truth about that, at least. I’m seeing a geothermal system with heat-draws going down to the core of this moon. Accessing climate control.” His touch on the console was clumsy through the thick gloves, so the moments dragged on as Rakal hugged herself and shivered, exhaling curls of mist. “Okay, I’ve got it.”

Deep beneath their feet, generators rattled and began to hum. Runn let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Are there schematics?”

“One thing at a time,” Fex said, still testing commands on the climate control program. “This system is old AND Imperial, it’s not like talking to a homenet.”

“Take your time,” Rakal said, a little shakily now that her jaw was quivering with cold. “Once we’ve got light and heat, everything else can come after.”

“Can food come after?” Runn asked, stomach twisting in agitation.

“This light won’t be enough,” Anira added, her voice strained. “I can’t live on this spectrum.”

“Folks,” Rakal said, “please. One problem at a time.”

They stood in a loose semicircle and watched Fex type. Occasionally he typed the wrong thing, gloves pressing additional keys, and cursed softly as he deleted commands and started again. But eventually he opened up the ventilation systems on all levels of the fortress to let the heat travel up from the core. Metallic pops and clangs sounded beneath their feet as cold metal shafts expanded under a rush of heated air. Once that was done, Fex went hunting for a site map, and managed to engage the small holoprojector build into the console.

“Okay, so we’re here,” he said, poking the holo representation of the entry-way. “We probably shouldn’t stay. This looks like one of the biggest rooms in this place, except for the launch bays down here, so it’s going to be the slowest to heat. This thing isn’t really labeled well. Looks like bigger rooms on this level, then stairs up and slightly smaller rooms on the upper levels except for this big one, which is… right over our heads.” The holoprojection showed a balcony above them. Several of them backed up, barely able to make out the railing in the shadows near the ceiling. “This is how the heating system runs.” He typed a command (after mistyping it twice and growling at the console) and the heating system was shown on the projection in red. “So we can assume these rooms will be fastest to heat. We should probably find one of them.”

“Yes. We’ll set up there and unpack,” Rakal agreed. “See what we’ve been left with. Runn, do you have the lift? Ani, go get Nic, would you?”

Anira moved to retrieve Niceus while Runn headed back to where he’d left the grav sled and dragged it to the southern hallway. It was the one he’d almost lost himself in when the lights were off. Still deeply shadowed, recessed crimson lights were set into the ceiling and gave a sullen, fireplace glow that made the whole place seem sinister.

“There has to be better lighting in this place. If it was a military installation, I can’t imagine they conducted all their operations under these conditions,” Rakal said, holding the light stick aloft as she led them down a sloping hallway. At the first landing, the hallway twisted left, and a staircase opened to the right. She turned up the stairs and followed them up two levels, whispering the directions under her breath. Beyond the first floor, the lights went out, and only the light stick guided them. They stayed close together, doorways yawning along the halls, concealing force-only-knew-what terrors.

“Once we settle,” Fex whispered, “I’m going to find the primary control and light this wreck up. Rakal, come with me.”

“After we find a warmer room,” Rakal agreed. “I think this is the corridor.” She turned, and they followed after her as she held the light stick up in doorways, glancing around inside. “Here. It looks like some kind of dorm.” She stepped inside and found the light panel, casting the same dim, red glow over the room. There were indeed bunks, plain metal with vinyl-wrapped pads and no linens or pillows visible. Mismatched chests sat against the walls between the bunks. 

“Oh, Force,” Runn exhaled. “Someone’s stayed here. This place must be habitable. Someone other than Naga Sadow, I mean.”

“You don’t know that,” Fex said, stepping into the room and testing the padding on one of the bunks. “These could be troop quarters for his invasion fleet.”

“It obviously hasn’t been centuries since this place was inhabited,” Niceus blurted out. He was standing near the rear, fidgeting in agitation. “Look at the dust and the locks. Not centuries.”

“Maybe they use it to train Sith apprentices,” Anira suggested. “Isn’t that what Kite said? That Wraith is a teacher and we’re here to learn?” She shivered saying his name.

“I’ve heard Sith training is brutal.” Fex sprawled on one of the lower bunks.

Runn dragged the grav sled into the room and pushed it against the far wall. There were no windows in the room, the better to retain the heat, and there was a large empty area at the end of the room that looked like it was supposed to be communal. A table had been shoved up against the wall, and chairs stacked upside-down on top of it. For now, he used the clear space to shut down the grav sled and start unwrapping the netting. Rakal came over to help him, and then Anira. They folded the net and set it aside.

“I couldn’t get those crates open,” Fex said, and Rakal frowned.

“No, but Kite gave me the control…” She dug it out of one of the deep pockets on the external suit and began to thumb through the menu. “There’s a file. ‘Codes you’ll need’. At least he’s straightforward.” She opened it, then carefully pressed the buttons on one of the crates. It beeped and popped open.

“Oh, thank the stars,” Anira murmured, reaching in and lifting out a folded up broad-spectrum floodlight. There were two of them, and she began setting them up and unwrapping the power cords. Runn hauled the crate down and set it on the floor so Rakal could reach the rest. She opened them one after the other, revealing personal tablets, a holocomm unit, a crate of neatly divided, freeze-dried ingredients that Runn couldn’t identify a clear purpose for – surely they weren’t expected to EAT sleen adrenal glands? – and a wide range of medical supplies, including a small barrel of kolto fresh enough that it lit the entire room with its blue glow.

The bottom crates had been packed full of fertilizer, which smelled abominably when Rakal opened it. She quickly shut the lid, but pointed the crate out to Anira, who slumped even more in relief.

Fex took the holocomm and began to fiddle with it. “There’s a saved message on this.” He unzipped his helmet – the room was still chilly, but it was beginning to warm. Runn did the same, and when Niceus saw that, he shrugged out of his pack and began to strip the suit off, heedless of the cold. Violent shivering seized hold of him immediately, but he made no move to put the suit back on.

Fex set the comm unit down and a hologram appeared, modern and sketched in nuanced, colored light with its telltale blue tint.

It was Lord Wraith, and Anira startled.

“Hello,” the hologram said.

“Anira?” Rakal reached for her shoulder.

“It’s an illusion,” she whispered, soft but fierce. “He doesn’t really look like that.”

“Who cares? Shhh,” Fex said, and they all gathered around to peer at the hologram.

“By now, I trust, you’ve survived your first challenge and gotten your foot in the door… literally.” The Sith smiled at his own humor. “Welcome to the fortress of Naga Sadow. The moon you’re on is called Khar Shian. You’ll see Khar Delba in the sky on clear nights. Don’t let its nearness torment you; there’s no one on that rock who will help you escape. Similarly, this comm unit only has enough power to transmit as far as a signal booster in orbit. That signal booster is controlled by me, and no signals will be allowed in or out save the ones I approve. There are, of course, broken down transports out on the launch pad, and there’s equipment and wiring throughout the fortress. You’re welcome to attempt any number of creative plans to contact the Republic or escape. I look forward to seeing your ingenuity, but be advised – generations of students have already stripped most of those resources in their own attempts. I doubt they left much behind that’s of use.”

“That might explain why we’re on emergency lighting,” Fex muttered.

“So, now that we’ve covered that, let’s get down to business,” the hologram continued. “I am Cale Walker, Lord Wraith, headmaster of the Dromund Kaas Academy for Sorcery and Exosciences. I offer an advanced secondary education for the future leaders of the Empire. I saved your lives. I understand you’re in no position to appreciate that right now, but please believe me – if I hadn’t stepped in, every one of you would have died on Korriban. Frankly, you never should have been there in the first place. You are children, even though you are Jedi. I consider the actions of your masters negligent at the very least.”

“Oh, what, and you’re better?” Fex wondered, and Runn hushed him.

“Of course, your masters are now dead and you are adrift. The Jedi Order clearly doesn’t value you, or they wouldn’t have sent you on a doomed mission. There’s little I detest more than seeing potential wasted. And so, as of now, you are all my students. I will teach you the ways of the Dark Side.”

“Bullshit,” Fex snarled. Runn reached over and smacked the back of his head.

“I know exactly what you’re thinking. You’ll never turn,” the hologram said with a slow, sly smile. “You’ll never succumb. But if you’ve made it inside, at least one of you has already taken the first step. Believe me, with your background and the power of the Dark Side on this moon, every subsequent step will be easy as falling down a hill. You already have most of the basic skill set needed to become powerful Sith apprentices. You can focus your will, you can meditate, you can sense The Force and draw it into yourselves and use it to affect your environment. The education of a Sith student is not so different. Compared to many who’ve found themselves where you are now, you have a running start. I will use this comm unit to communicate with you each morning in eighth hour of Khar Shian’s orbital rotation. You should have chronos set to Khar Shian’s rotations in your supplies, and the alarms are already set for two hours prior to your lessons, and again for fifteen minutes prior. That will allow you time to get up, dress, meditate, exercise if you like, and have something for breakfast before lessons begin in the morning.”

“He’s crazy if he thinks we’ll even turn on the holo,” Fex protested.

“If you’re thinking you just won’t show up,” the hologram said, “You are underestimating how many teenagers I have taught. The projector is activated remotely, and if anyone fails to show up to a lesson for any reason other than death or debilitating injury, there will be consequences. I know you’re going to test this at least once, so go ahead and decide amongst yourselves who wants to be the first to bring punishment down on the group.”

Fex’s blue-green scales went pale.

“A Sith is alone in the galaxy. They have only themselves and the Dark Side to survive and pursue their ambitions. However, you will be dependent on one another to a certain degree. If one of you steps out of line, the whole group will be punished. With that in mind, let’s lay down some ground rules.” The hologram smiled, handsome and mischievous, and Anira curled up tighter, some of her branches peeling away from the strict humanoid form she usually maintained. “You will all be present and on time to all lessons. You will not disrupt or sabotage the lessons. You will complete your assignments and turn them in when they are due. Extensions on assignments need to be requested and approved by me. There will be no asking for extensions on the due date. You can send me text-comms through this comm unit, and they will be filtered and delivered. You should use this resource to ask me questions if you need clarification on anything. 

“You will not kill each other. However, if someone mysteriously disappears without evidence of foul play, then clearly there’s nothing I can do about it.” They all made sour faces in response to his knowing grin. “You will not make this facility uninhabitable for future generations of Sith students. That means no tearing up the bunks, no screwing with the heating system, and if the roof comes off, nail it back on before I see it. There will be tests,” he continued. “Some you’ll recognize. Some you won’t. Failure means punishment. But I’m sure none of you will have any trouble exceling. Only those who complete this program to my satisfaction will be allowed to leave this moon. So if you ever want to feel warm again, I strongly suggest you don’t fight the process any more than you have to. And I understand that you have to, at least in the beginning. You are still Jedi now. But, hopefully, not for much longer.”

“Fuck you,” Fex whispered, trembling. “Fuck you. FUCK YOU.”

Runn reached over and wrapped his arm around Fex’s shoulders, pulling him against him. Fex was shaking violently, nails digging into his palms, and Runn rubbed a hand up and down his spine in an attempt to soothe him.

“Now, for permissions you do have. You can leave the fortress. Roam as far as you like, at your own risk. You can send me text comms any time, and for any reason. I will not punish disrespectful or abusive texts. I don’t take the anger of my students personally. You may make use of the facilities. This fortress contains a library, training rooms, and VR flight simulators. Be sure to log any flight hours you earn so you’re credited for them. Now, for your first assignment.”

“We’re not doing this, right?” Fex demanded. Rakal put a hand on his knee and made a hushing sound, but he only lowered his voice. “RIGHT??”

“Somewhere in this fortress is a holocron that will guide you in your first attempts to touch the Dark Side. It IS important that you have a guide for your first meditative exercises on this moon. The nexus may overwhelm you if you don’t proceed with caution and deliberation. By the time your instruction begins tomorrow, I expect you to have located the holocron and completed the first exercise. This exercise comes with a writing assignment, so stick with the lesson until it is concluded. When every one of you has turned in this assignment, I will tell you the location of tomorrow’s food drop. If anyone fails to complete the assignment, there will be no food drop. I won’t always be nice enough to warn you of punishments in advance,” he said. “But I know your new circumstances will require some… getting used to. I hope to be pleasantly surprised. So, good luck, good night, and good hunting.” 

The hologram nodded its head and disappeared.

“A holocron,” Rakal murmured. “In a place this vast. How are we supposed to find it?”

“He wants to corrupt us,” Runn suggested. “So it can’t be something we’d just find if we turned the place over. The way to find it probably has to do with the Dark Side. Sensing it, maybe.”

Rakal nodded. “I think you’re right.” She was rummaging in the crate and found a small box that contained wrist chronos. “Here they are. Already set. This moon’s on a thirty-hour rotation, and we’re in about hour sixteen. I suggest we make the beds and get some rest so the drugs can wear off.”

“Does anybody have ANYTHING to eat?” Runn asked miserably.

Their sleep sacks were rolled up and attached to their packs. They pulled them free and unrolled them, let Niceus check for the one that he felt most comfortable with, then began arranging them on bunks. There were about twice as many beds as they needed, so no one had to argue about top or bottom bunks. Digging through the packs revealed changes of clothes (all in black), some basic toiletries, and one ration each. Runn promptly devoured his.

Once they had all this unpacked, Rakal and Runn dragged Fex closer to the door, leaving the farther bunks for Niceus so there would be some buffer between them. They knew from experience that he didn’t like sleeping near other people with the exception of Anira, who pulled the crates of fertilizer over near his bed and slipped out of her clothes. Leaving her shoes on the floor , she stepped into one of the crates, dug her feet in, wiggling her toes, and slowly released her compacted humanoid form, tipping her head back and reaching her branches up toward the ceiling. The small branches that formed the details of her face uncurled, and what was left was a gracefully curved alien tree, leaves rustling softly as it shaded Niceus’ bed. Niceus insisted on pulling clean clothes out of his pack, but they were the wrong size, so he searched through everyone else’s pack, taking permission more or less for granted, until he found a plastic bag that rustled and crackled when he pulled it free.

“It’s my name,” he murmured. At first nobody paid attention. He reached over and grabbed Anira’s trunk. “It’s my name.”

She didn’t bother reforming her face, bending down, her large, dark eyes twisting to regard the bag. “It does say your name,” she agreed. “Open it.”

He pulled the drawstring and found several changes of clothes inside. He squeezed them in his hands and sniffed them.

“Niceus?” Anira asked gently. “Is it okay?”

He nodded and crawled around behind her fertilizer crates to crawl into the new clothes. Once he’d pulled on pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and socks, he exhaled and rested his head on the lip of her crate. “Soft,” he whispered.

“The texture is all right?”

He nodded, and she rustled her leaves. “Get in bed, Nic. We all need some rest.”

“It’s nicer than my Jedi clothes,” Niceus admitted in whisper. Anira tried not to show him how that statement made her shiver.

“You know how the Order is,” she whispered.

“I know.” Niceus crawled into his bedroll and settled, curling up on his side. “Sometimes I hate it.”

Anira didn’t have any response to that, and she just rustled softly, trying not to give in to the knot of fear in her core. All around her were rustling sounds as the others crawled into bedrolls and tried to get some sleep. Rakal announced that she was setting the alarm for six hours, and Fex and Runn both told her to make it eight. It wasn’t as if they were short on time.

“But I don’t want to mess up our sleep cycle,” Rakal protested.

Fex and Runn both grunted. “EIGHT.”

She set the alarm for eight hours, and turned off the lights. The kolto barrel still glowed, but its dim light wasn’t sufficient to bother anyone. Soon, the only sound was that of Anira’s fellow padawans breathing and the muffled howl of the freezing wind outside.

It wasn’t quiet long.


	4. An Aside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Collaborative chapter with Sarahnevra, since we were asked what was going on back at the ranch. Zharast belongs to her.

“-- So I figure they’ll probably spend a few hours sleeping it off before we have to worry about shenanigans,” Kite said easily. He was lounging in the captain’s chair with his feet on the instrument panel and the holoprojector caught him from an angle, his legs trailing out of frame. 

“Probably the best thing they could have done,” Cale agreed. “We’ll see you in a couple of hours then?”

“I’m gonna run a systems check on the signal boost, just to be safe, then I’ll hit hyperspace,” Kite said. “You’ll be in bed when I get home.”

It was indeed evening on Dromund Kaas, and Cale was already dressed in comfortable, loose-fitting clothes for bed, lounging on the couch with his husband, Zharast, to chat with Kite.

"We'll see you in the morning, then," Zharast said, idly rubbing Cale's arm. He’d tucked his husband against his side at some point during Kite’s briefing, broad frame taking up a good chunk of the couch space. "Anything you need from us on this end before you get going?"

“Feeds should be live any minute now,” Kite said with a shrug. “Like I said, I’ll do an equipment check and be good to go. You to can get on to whatever you had planned.” His image vanished.

Cale smiled, tipping his head back to look at his husband upside-down. “Did we have something planned?”

Zharast chuckled softly, kissing his forehead. “Besides testing the soundproofing again? I don’t think so.”

“Mm.” Cale sighed, settling against him - he ran cold, a byproduct of being not entirely of the realm of the living, and Zhar was big and broad and warm. “So, that’s that, then. From here on out, they’re on their own.”

“They already seem like they’re willing to bend to survive, so they’re off to a good start.” Zharast wrapped his arm tighter around Cale’s shoulders, happy to act as a living space heater as usual. “All the food drops are set, at least?”

“Kite’s not thrilled about the commute, but he likes hyperspace travel. I’m sure he’ll find a way to keep busy.” Cale turned slightly so he could nuzzle into the crook of Zhar’s arm. “I don’t doubt they’ll throw up a little static, but sleeping a few nights on Khar Shian should put them solidly on the right path.” A dark side nexus worked most powerfully in dreams, which Cale knew well, since he’d been forged into a Sith at the Academy on Khar Delba.

“Or drive them a little batty, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Zharast smiled softly at his husband. “Not that I’d know for sure, but that seems to be something that just happens as Sith mature.”

Cale put on an expression of wounded offense. “What exactly are you implying, husband-mine? Clearly I’m a model of mental health and stability. Besides, it isn’t time that will drive them batty. It’s the onslaught of hormones. They’ve been living in a world of cushioned denial,” Cale said dryly, reaching back to rub his fingers along the edge of Zhar’s sleek metal collar. “When they all hit puberty in the next few days, Kite’s going to be glad he didn’t stay on the ground.”

Zharast snorted softly, tone going dry. “Cale, I love you, but ‘model of health and stability’ is a bit of a stretch.” He sighed softly, head dipping forward to give Cale easier access to his collar. “You’re not crazy, for sure, but anybody who pokes at spirits like you do can’t be perfectly sane. As for the kids, you’re probably right. Kite’s going to be happy he gets to deal with them mostly hands-off.”

“Don’t underestimate him, he likes kids,” Cale murmured, nuzzling Zhar as he traced his fingers around the curve of his neck. “He wouldn’t stick around if he didn’t. He’ll probably get fond of them as soon as that Jedi sanctimoniousness wears off.”

“Give them a few days in the chill and the dark,” Zhar mumbled, melting under his husband’s touch. “That’ll wear off and we’ll either see some real personality shine through or they’ll turn into little pains in the ass. Or that will be their real personalities and Kite’s going to be fondly frustrated.”

“Love,” Cale said gently, grinning, “Kite gets along with Dezi.”

Zhar snorted. “Point,” he conceded. “And I don’t think anybody can be quite as much of a handful as Dezi without putting serious effort into it.”

Cale snickered, reaching for the glass of dark red liquid he’d abandoned on the holotable when Kite called. His tablet was next to it, and he gathered it as he took a long, slow sip, letting the richness slide over his tongue. “Cameras one, two, five, and eight,” he murmured as black and white feeds flashed across his screen. “I really don’t like the entry hall angle. Then again, could be the light.” He switched to a feed that showed the beds in their neat rows, a dryad-like tree spreading her boughs next to one of them, a few lumps of sleeping padawans barely visible.

Zhar tilted his head slightly to see better, looking closely at the camera angles. “Probably the light, in this case. Looks like it’s only at emergency level. Is that purposeful or have past students ransacked the place so thoroughly that all that’s left is bare-bones systems?”

“Oh, trust me, all non-essential systems in that dump have been thoroughly pillaged,” Cale said dryly. “I had the dubious honor of verifying that with my own eyes when I was a student. This was, of course, before I was dropped in that crevice and left for dead. The fortress is a good windshield and not much else. But it will isolate them, which I need, and it will keep them contained without forcing me to directly enslave them, which is necessary for any kind of mentor-ship to be possible.”

“And it’ll keep them from freezing to death,” Zhar added. “Popsicles don’t tend to absorb information very well. At least, I had a hard time retaining briefings when I was stationed on Hoth.”

Cale smiled. “Oh, they’ll always be a little cold. It’s the discomforts that get to you, after a while. Never really being warm, never really being full, never really being well rested… you begin to run sharp and lean. It whets your teeth. Of course, these acolytes have known ascetic deprivation, but it’s a different story when it’s a competition, not a meditative exercise.”

“Very true,” Zhar agreed. “When it’s forced it feels different. You have no choice, it’s frightening, you’re genuinely limited in what you have access to. The mental strain is entirely different. It’s like the difference between dieting and starving.”

“Bringing back memories of basic training?” Cale purred, sipping again from his glass. The liquid clung to the surface, slightly too viscous for pure wine, but it smelled like heat and copper and cloves.

“Yes, but I was at risk for sunburn instead of frostbite,” Zhar replied, eyes drifting to the glass. He smiled slightly, used to his husband’s needs after so long together. “Food scarcity was definitely a thing, though. As was lack of sleep.”

“Mm. What do you think?” He contemplated the swirl of liquid against the curve of the glass. “Think we’ll lose any? I’m not sure the Rhodian will be able to make it work for him. He seems like the type who might burn out.”

“I want to see how a few nights sleep without the drugs in their systems goes before I make any solid guesses.” He rested his chin on top of Cale’s head, squeezing him gently. “I don’t doubt we’ll lose one or two, but until they settle in and start showing their teeth nothing’s going to be anything close to a good guess.”

“Do you have a favorite?” he asked playfully, and drained the glass before rolling sleepily into his lover’s arms.

“I’d have to say the kid who needed the special shirts,” Zhar replied, wrapping him up and pulling him onto his lap. “Maybe the Rhodian. He might burn out, but he might explode in a positive direction instead.”

“Niceus,” Cale said. “I like him too. Those who are disabled know rage more intimately than many Sith Lords can ever dream. He’s been taught to put it aside and seek a higher path, but I think he knows right where it is. He can reach it if he wants to. I just have to motivate him.”

“If anyone can tap and motivate that rage it’s you, love,” Zhar said with a soft smile, nuzzling his hair. “He’s the one that opened the door, right? So he’s already taking his first steps.”

“Like I said; he knows right where it is.” Cale sighed. “I’ll check up on them in the morning, before class.”

“In the meantime, you need some sleep.” Zhar kissed the top of his head. “You’ve got their lessons to deal with on top of the kids in the dorms upstairs, plus the staff meeting at lunch tomorrow.”

“I know. I’m definitely trying to do too much,” Cale sighed, and swung his legs off the couch to sit up. “I couldn’t just leave them there.”

“I know, love,” Zhar said gently, resting one big hand on his husband’s lower back. “You’re a teacher. Their deaths would’ve been a total waste and it’s not their fault they were there in the first place. You’re doing what you can to get them somewhere.”

“It still amazes me you’re so sanguine about all this,” he said, smiling wryly at Zhar.

“Why’s that?” he asked, arching a brow.

“I suppose I just figured they taught you better in the Republic. Then again, you live here, and you have yet to find anything unforgivable about my usual methods.”

“Love, I grew up in the lower levels of Coruscant. Methods and motivations are flexible.” He shrugged. “Being kidnapped by a person who gives a shit about at least one aspect of your life is a lot better than being kept by an organization that wants to grind all of your individuality into a paste they can mold however they like. Which sounds hypocritical coming from a soldier, but you know what I mean.”

“It sounds extremely hypocritical, but I’m fond of you as an individual. Your background just makes you a perfect slave.” Cale hooked his fingers under Zhar’s collar and tugged, rising to his feet. “Bed? As you so helpfully pointed out, I have a social day tomorrow.”

Zhar rose obediently, bending automatically so Cale didn’t have to reach far to keep a grip on his collar. “Yes, sir. Bed sounds like the best plan.” He also smiled softly. “And I happen to like being your slave.”

“Say things like that and I’ll get less sleep than I should,” Cale murmured, walking backwards, tugging Zhar with him toward the bedroom door.

“I would never deprive you of sleep, sir,” Zhar said with a cheeky grin, following with barely any effort on Cale’s part.


End file.
